Moonlight
by MarriedUnderCherryTrees33
Summary: Watson watches Holmes sleep. Friendship or Slash, wear the goggles as you see fit. T just in case. Much fluff and bromance.


**EDIT:** It occurs to me I never gave a disclaimer, and if that error on my part in any way led you to believe that I own Sherlock Holmes, be it the original Conan Doyle book series, any of the many films or the brilliant BBC series – which will never replace Jude Law and R Downey Jr for me but is still very much worth watching – I must correct you. Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes. Apologies for deceiving you.

I would like to thank **Zenyatta19** for her very lovely review which lit up my day, and the equally wonderful review from **Dr. Paranoia** who pointed out that it is hard to mistake this for anything BUT slash, which is sadly true, so I must take the time to apologize if you came in here with a definition of friendship that doesn't include studying the perfection of another's eyelashes in the night.

Feel free to turn back now. But all you fellow bromantics, come, come in. I hope you enjoy.

And to all you people who hate when the author's notes at the beginning of the story go on for far too long, sorry.

o-o

There was nothing more beautiful than Sherlock Holmes, asleep.

He was perfect. The rise and fall of his chest, the gentle flutter of his eyelashes, the soft halo of moonlight on his hair: he could have been an angel. Holmes awake was anything but. But Holmes asleep was mesmerizing, tantalizing, hypnotizing. Watson could lie forever, watching him. Hours, days, years could have passed him by and he wouldn't have felt a moment of it. When he watched Holmes sleep, time ceased to exist. The world stood still.

He always slept on his side, vulnerable on his back, uncomfortable on his stomach. One hand curled under his cheek, the other resting in front of his face. Sometimes his hair would fall in his face, scraggly tendrils of hazel that moved with every breath. His breathing was soft and even and remarkably calming, and the quiet exhalations filled the room. Sometimes Watson would find himself holding his breath, just to listen better to his partner's.

Holmes' breathing hadn't always been so peaceful, the tranquillity of his slumber had once given way to nightmares and fits and harsh shallow breathing. He had never fully slept in the early days of their relationship: always waiting for something to grab him, to hurt him, to attack in his unconsciousness. But he had slowly become more and more at ease, and the nights they spent in proximity to each other were no longer punctuated by Holmes' restless tossing and turning. He no longer jerked awake at the slightest movement or sound, torn out of sleep with a scream on his lips, and after a long period of pondering Watson had come to determine that the only variable that had changed since then was him.

He felt a strange sort of pride knowing that it was he who had done this: that this beauty was his and his alone. It was an unspoken trust Holmes had suddenly presented him, the confidence that Watson would protect him from whatever harm might come in the night, and it meant more to the doctor than words could ever say.

It was late, late enough to be early, but Watson wasn't tired. The moon was full, and the moonlight through the window cast beams of cold silver over Holmes' sleeping form, in turn illuminating and casting his face in shadow. Watson didn't dare breathe for fear of disturbing the artistry of the scene. Anything this perfect, he reasoned, would certainly posses a certain fragility, and he would be dammed if it was him who'd spoil this beauty.

It was a hotel room: two beds side by side. It was remarkably clean compared to the usual sleeping arrangements such cases required; the pair had seen their fair share of dirty lodgings: often above pubs or in seedy inns where boarded shutters and parasites were common. But the room was neat and tidy, the walls an immaculate cream, the sheets crisp and white. The day had been long, the case difficult, and Watson was certain he'd need his rest, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from his sleeping partner. Even to blink was a loss and a waste. He wanted to hold this moment forever.

Holmes shifted quietly in his sleep, muttering something incoherent before sighing and relaxing once more into the sheets. Watson loved the little noises he made in his sleep, the murmurs and the whispers and the tiny gasps and sighs. The little sighs were his favourite, and he smiled when he heard him, wondering what it was in that brilliant mind of his that made him so content. He spent a lot of time wondering what went on in Holmes' mind when he slept, trying to guess by the facial expressions and the occasional word that escaped his lips, but he was often content just to watch. He propped himself up on an elbow and studied him, every line of his face, every eyelash, every curl, memorizing, analyzing. Holmes' eyelashes fluttered, and he smiled. And then Holmes' eyes flickered open.

His first reaction was panic, to drop himself back to the bed and roll over as quickly as possible. He didn't want to know what Holmes would say if he knew that he had spent his night watching him sleep, and he cursed himself as he realized that he was about to find out. Rather than roll over, it would have been more prudent to stay in the same position, to feign sleep or indifference, to pretend he had awoken at the same time, or had been staring at something else. But the guilty flurry of movement had caught Holmes' eye, and even with his back to the detective, staring hard at the wall, Watson could feel the curious eyes on him. He felt his cheeks flaming red and wished the moon wasn't quite so bright.

"...Watson?..." the voice came from behind him, just as he knew it would, and he gritted his teeth, waiting for the inevitable question.

"Were you watching me sleep?"

The tone was half-amused, half-bewildered. Watson chewed his lip and wondered how to reply. He heard a rustling of sheets and knew that Holmes had sat up. He knew exactly how he'd push himself up with one arm, the other swiping the unruly hair out of his eyes. He knew how he was sitting now, straight up in bed, his head tilted to one side as he waited for a reply. He knew exactly how the brown eyes were scrutinizing his back, quizzical and playfully mischievous. He saw the moonlight dance in them, the hint of a smile that was growing on his face, amused by his friend's obvious embarrassment. Watson glowered at the wall and said nothing.

The sheets rustled again, and Watson knew he had dropped onto his back, that he was letting the matter rest for awhile. Silence fell again, but he knew he was still awake. Probably staring at the ceiling the same way Watson watched the wall, without really seeing, all senses alert, waiting for the other to speak. And at last Watson did.

"I..." He faltered, unable to find the right words to explain it. "I like it when you sleep."

"Why?"

Watson rolled over in his bed so he was facing Holmes. The other man was flat on his back, his eyes to the ceiling, just as Watson had known he would be. At the movement, he lolled his head to one side so he could look his friend in the eyes. There was no laughter in his eyes, none of the expected teasing, just the question.

"Because it's the only time when your mouth is shut." said Watson, grinning. "Good night."

Although he rolled back over to face the wall once more, he knew exactly how Holmes would huff good-naturedly, roll his eyes and collapse back onto his side to go back to sleep. He imagined the detective resting his cheek against one hand, the other one curling loosely in front of his face. He stared at the wall and thought of his messy hair spread out over the pillow, the long eyelashes brushing his cheeks as his eyes closed.

When Watson had spent a sufficient amount of time staring at the wall, and the room was once more full of Holmes' soft even breathing, he rolled back onto his other side so the two men faced each other.

Holmes let out a quiet sigh, and Watson smiled before his eyes closed.


End file.
